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third wharton novel of the week 🫡

second wharton novel of the week 🫡

thus far this reads like a mixture of notes from the underground & white nights, which is to say very much like a dostoyevsky

with every word read, my limbs ache a little more

crying over the Ratzenberger/Senna accidents being recounted from a new pov? likely place for me to be

portrayals of art as life changing in the biggest & smallest of ways >>>

when they said this is somewhat a work of film criticism they weren't kidding, I've never encountered so many film references in a book

i can’t get enough of keegan’s prose

i actually think this might break me

terrified to start this but here we go

this is making me feel like i'm back in my freshman year intro science course & not in a good way

trying to get through my teenage tbr 🫡

"When I am writing, I am never alone,
I say to someone, who says that that is probably right, that is
what we need right now. Agnes Martin says to me that I am
the source of my own response. The artist is not responsible
for the onlooker. It can’t be helped that I have no control of
my family. They may leave me; I accept that."

woah woah woah

every single poem so far has rearranged my insides

so far this seems like it's 100% written to shock the reader & not much else

this is drastically different from what i expected and it honestly terrified me.

this book is chaotic in all the best ways